


Broken

by Dame_Syrup (mary_pseud)



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Bondage, Kinkmeme, Other, Repairs, Telepathy, Time War, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-06
Updated: 2018-04-06
Packaged: 2019-04-19 01:04:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14225739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mary_pseud/pseuds/Dame_Syrup
Summary: For a kinkmeme prompt: Nine/TARDIS - Bondage. The more hardcore, the better >:)





	Broken

They were both broken; the Doctor and the TARDIS. Crippled, burnt, shattered, they travelled together in a meandering painful path, unable to enter the Vortex, trapped in normal space.

Except that it would never be normal again, would it? It would never have the Daleks in it again, those scourges of life, slaughtering with endless pitiless precision.

And it would never have the Time Lords in it, either. The guardians of the universe, the balancers, the silent hand holding the tiller of Time true: they were gone.

The Doctor didn't quite remember dying, but he was fairly certain he had at some point. His limbs were longer than he remembered; his nose sharper. He had not time to change the tattered rag of what had been an elegant suit for something else: instead he was fighting to keep his ship alive.

She was in pieces, literally. He could look down through great rifts in the console room floor and see broken wreckage, great expanses of mangled machinery, streaming water and sewage and energies, and once to his horror bare stars. The console itself was broken, and through those cracks came golden light, seductive and destructive: the heart of the TARDIS bleeding and bare.

He had to hold her together. He had to hold himself together. He ripped off his shirt to bandage his blistered hands, and started to tie and fold and staple and weld, running cables over and around the console, feeding the last ergs of energy into the TARDIS self-repair circuits. He was all over her, touching her with his tools and his words and his hands, caressing her, sometimes swiftly removing and replacing entire banks of circuitry and sometimes staring at some unfamiliar dent, some new patch of char, and wondering if he had caused it in his desperate efforts.

The console started to sag to one side, and he nearly screamed in frustration. Then he did scream. Why not? "No, no, no!" he shouted, hurling himself against the heavy metal panels, bracing himself against them, watching as controls burnt out, rank after rank. Desperate, he reached into the peeled-back panels, wrapping wires around his own wrists for leverage, and pulled, straining, feeling new muscles in his new back crack in protest.

~You should not save me.~ The voice of the TARDIS in his head, sharp and distinct as she almost never was.

"I must. I have to. I couldn’t save the Time Lords, but I can save you!" He braced his knees, feeling the console start to shift back into place.

~You destroyed your own species.~

"Please, just let me-" He strained over the console, feeling the Vortex energies searing into his chest. If he braced his hand in the socket of the time rotor, he might be able to reach the Berrell clamp and lock this section down, give him time to get brackets and spanners and self-welding patches and everything else he needed. He didn't contemplate what would happen to his hand if the time rotor started to move.

He thrust hard with his hips, letting his legs do the pushing. He was close, close…

~You destroyed my species.~

The Doctor sagged, his hands suddenly limp in their twined wire.

"I know. I'm sorry." He bowed his head and cried, again, not certain when he had last stopped crying. The last of the TARDISes in the universe was here, under his hands. Dying under his hands. And if she died, what would he do? Where would he be stranded - in space, waiting for the air to run out? Or on one planet, in one time, stepping from one day to the next like the endless beat of a metronome that would never wind down?

He clutched the console hard, letting the switches and dials dig into his bare flesh. He pressed his forehead to her and relished the pain. He was locked to the console, bound by wire and the weight of their mutual grief.

The heart of the TARDIS pulled at him, wrapping him round with her energies. Entranced, he saw the wires binding his wrists glow, pressed tighter against the console and felt the subtle throb of the TARDIS' energies shiver against his thighs.

~You destroyed them to save the universe. I helped you. Give me back my life, give me the universe, give me yourself.~

He gave his hands on the Berrell clamp holding the panels together and fastening them into one; he gave his eyes, seeing every break and burn and crack and planning how to fix them; he gave his breath, talking to her endlessly, reassuring her of his attention, his devotion, his determination to make her whole. He gave her the greatest focus of his mind, as he wrote and rewrote her code, helping her learn to control her damaged self, then gently encouraging her to heal.

He buried himself in her, to the shoulder, to the waist, plunging hands and head deep within her fractured self. He polished and scraped, he rebuilt and repaired, and he watched in trembling awe as her interior grew into something rich and strange, coral beams lacing overhead, new corridors and walls sprouting through her depthless interiors.

He gave his innermost energies, embracing her, letting her wires surround him, feeling them lace over legs and arms, tight at his throat; he held his breath and thrust his hips and thought of life, life flowing through her, life flowing out of him and into her. His orgasm was the best thing he had ever felt in his new body, until she opened her mind to him and showed him hers.

He loved her, with all his hearts, and felt her love come pouring back into him, healing him in turn.

Later, carefully, he landed on a planet where he traded a handful of plastic beads for a week in a fully equipped machine repair shop. He held the TARDIS shell gently in great clamps of yellow metal, letting her circuits heal, letting the façade of the police box harden and congeal back into solidity. Again and again he pressed his hand to her, saying silently that the universe was still out there, for her, for him, for them together.


End file.
